


let the rain sing you a lullaby

by larienelengasse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, POV John Watson, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Rain, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sherlock Plays the Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larienelengasse/pseuds/larienelengasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is back from the dead and John reflects upon just how lucky he is as they enjoy a quiet evening at 221B Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let the rain sing you a lullaby

Let the rain kiss you  
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops  
Let the rain sing you a lullaby  
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk  
The rain makes running pools in the gutter  
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night  
And I love the rain. 

 

John sat in his chair, soaking in the warmth of the fire, listening to the faint sound of glass slides tinkling as Sherlock moved them from one pile to another, passing them underneath the lens of the microscope on their kitchen table. Rain came down hard outside, tracing down the windowpanes of 221B Baker Street in fat rivulets, causing the streetlights to cast a warm, diffuse glow through the glass. The rain seemed to cocoon them, closing out the rest of the world and sheltering them in this perfect night. The soft patter of the rain hitting the roof and windows joined in with the other sounds in the flat: the tinkling of Sherlock’s slides, the popping of wood in the fireplace, and the barely audible murmur of Mrs. Hudson’s television downstairs.

The scent of Earl Grey floated out of his cup, a thin stream of steam curling and dancing upon the warm currants of air that wafted out from the fireplace. The scent mingled with that of wood smoke and something acrid coming from the kitchen that he knew but couldn’t quite name in his content state of mind. Sherlock was conducting experiments in the kitchen in lieu of a case to solve. What once drove him round the twist now caused such a sense of warm contentment to well up inside him that he barely dared to enjoy it. 

He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the fire and the tea and whatever it was that Sherlock was doing in the kitchen. He pushed all mundane thoughts from his mind and just listened to the sounds of their home and the rain and thought that never had anyone ever been born as lucky as he was right in that moment. It was perfect, unique, and so very fragile this place and time. He sometimes wondered if he was being rewarded for something, though he couldn’t imagine what it could be. He also sometimes wondered if this was what heaven was like. Maybe, he had died and couldn’t remember, and this was his afterlife – a simple, by most accounts unremarkable evening in this old, warm flat with a man that no one understood like he did. 

The sound of the wooden legs of Sherlock’s chair against the linoleum of the floor broke his reverie as the detective slid back from the table. His eyes still closed, John sensed Sherlock’s shadow as his friend passed between him and the fire, and he heard the first tenuous sounds of the Stradivarius as Sherlock coaxed a melody from the instrument. It was beautiful – sad and romantic at the same time and John felt his heart clench a little. 

Slowly he opened his eyes, almost afraid that it would all disappear and he would once again be alone in this place that he could neither leave nor stay in, not without what made it a home, not without the man standing in front of him. He watched Sherlock play, those remarkable eyes closed, his lean body swaying ever so slightly, his normally expressive mouth relaxed and that wonderful tangle of black curls seeming to glow of its own accord, the hair so soft and beautiful that even as black as it was it still gathered and reflected light. 

The song wasn’t anything that John had heard before. The notes were high pitched and delicate, the tempo was slow, so slow that John felt his breathing falling into step with it, growing deeper, as if he could actually feel the air moving past his lungs and into every fiber of his being. He felt a lump forming in his throat, tears coming unbidden to his eyes. It wasn’t melancholy that called those tears forth. It was profound, humble gratitude. He was alive. Mrs. Hudson was alive. Greg Lestrade was alive. And Sherlock, mad, complicated, infuriating, strong, brave, honorable, brilliant Sherlock was alive.

He smiled and let the tears fall. The only one to see them was Sherlock, and Sherlock would never judge him. The melody filled their flat, the last notes almost quivering upon the air as Sherlock finished playing. Those astonishing eyes opened, silver connecting with John’s deeper blue, and that absolutely stupendous mouth began to curve into a small, soft smile. 

John watched Sherlock place the violin back in its case, his long legs carrying him from where he stood by the window with such grace that John almost openly wept at the stunning beauty of it all. Just as gracefully, those legs folded and Sherlock was on his knees in front of John. No one ever saw Sherlock like this, no one but him. This side of Sherlock was his and his alone.

John allowed Sherlock to take his cup from his hands and set it on the table beside him. Those same beautiful hands that had drawn magic in the form of music from the violin came to rest on his knees. Sherlock didn’t say a word, he just kept looking at John as if he were witnessing a miracle, and John thought to himself that he wasn’t the miracle – the miracle was kneeling in front of him. 

John leaned forward, closing the distance between him and Sherlock as if he were compelled to do so, though he certainly didn’t need any encouragement. Sherlock also leaned forward, canting his head to the left as John did the same, those soft, beautiful lips parting as they met John’s. Sherlock’s eyes didn’t close, nor did John’s, not at first.

Slowly, John’s lids did slide shut as he felt Sherlock’s long fingers wrap around the back of his neck and his heart swelled to the point that he was sure it would burst straight through his chest when their lips pressed closer. It was a soft brush. Sherlock’s lips were warm and so terribly soft and full, so heartbreakingly gentle. John’s hands closed on Sherlock’s shoulders. His detective was a little thinner now than he used to be, but he was still all muscle covered in flawless alabaster flesh. 

Another press of Sherlock’s lips, and John opened his mouth. Sherlock smiled against John’s lips then John’s breath caught as that warm, wonderful, wicked tongue slid inside and filled him up. Alongside the rain that pattered on the roof and windows, and the wood that cracked and popped in the hearth, John could hear the low, rumbling purr that elicited from his now lover’s throat and his own deep, resonant answering moan.

He placed his hands on each side of Sherlock’s head and drew back just enough that he could look the detective in the eye.

“I love you,” he said softly, barely louder than a whisper.

“I know,” said Sherlock with a smile. “I will never give you cause to do anything but.”

“I know,” John said.

Sherlock didn’t need to tell John how he felt. John read it in his face, his music, and the way he looked at him.

Sherlock stood, taking both of John’s hands in his own and drew his beloved Doctor to his feet. John swayed for a fraction of a second, drunk on the heady sensations that coursed through him – Sherlock’s warmth, the sounds of their home, the rain outside – then he slipped his arm around Sherlock’s narrow waist and followed him to the bedroom.

Sherlock was alive, and John would spend every day for the rest of his life showing this beautiful, mad man how much he cherished that.

~Finis

**Author's Note:**

> This iteration of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Benedict Cumberbatch, and Martin Freeman. I am profoundly grateful that they have provided such rich material to draw from. Title from Langston Hughes’s poem “April Rain Song,” quoted at the start of this story. Set post Reichenbach Fall. This story is unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine.


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